


Common

by ddagent



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Comfort No Hurt, Doctor/Patient, F/M, Friendship, Illnesses, Jaime is so needy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 14:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20909522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddagent/pseuds/ddagent
Summary: Jaime Lannister visits Maester Tarth, adamant that he is dying. Spoiler: he's just got a cold. For JB Week Day V.





	Common

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the slight delay! This is for JB Week Day V, prompt 'cold'. I hope you enjoy!

Jaime Lannister was dying.

What of, he had yet to determine. But his body was failing, and thus Jaime was sure the end was near. Every cell in his body _ached. _Lifting his arm to reach for a cup of coffee – even turning his head in his lecture room – required immense strength and energy. He could no longer taste his morning brew; nor smell the fresh pastries at his regular bakery. His nose was stuffy and gunky and hot, and he could barely _breathe. _Catelyn, his head of department, had quite rightly told him to go home. Tyrion advised him to see a Maester.

One of the many downsides to throwing his father’s money back in his face was no access to a private physician. Which was how Jaime found himself shuffling through the door of the Heart Tree Clinic. Head pounding, vision blurry, Jaime stumbled to the reception desk. Whilst waiting behind a short man wiping his nose on his sleeve, Jaime examined his reflection in the glass partition. Certainly a far cry from his golden lion days: limp hair, weary eyes. He looked tired and pale and his face hurt.

Still, the Maester would help. The nose wiper finished; Jaime moved to the front of the line. “Hello. I have an appointment at midday.”

The receptionist, a dark-haired woman bearing the nametag ‘Ros’, barely glanced his way. “Name?”

“Jaime—” He coughed; his chest burning. “Jaime Lannister.”

Ros typed something; crimson fingernails clacking against the keys. “Take a seat; Maester Tarth will be with you shortly.”

Jaime nodded, and turned towards the waiting area. It was stocked with green vinyl seats peeling at the corners; a children’s play area with tatty books and a battered xylophone. A number of elderly patients were coughing and spluttering; eyes bloodshot and noses pink. One child, reading a book about a knight and a bear, was covered in angry red spots. Jaime found the furthest chair from them all and sat, back pressed against the wall. It was ten to twelve, now. He shouldn’t have to wait long to see Maester Tarth.

But wait he did. Wait, and wait, whilst other patients were called ahead of him.

Eventually, thirty-two minutes after his appointment was scheduled, a blonde woman with blue eyes strode into the waiting area. “Jaime Lannister?”

“Here.” He let out a low groan as he lurched to his feet. Maester Tarth was tall, and pale, with even paler hair tied back with a clip. _Heh. _It was a little sword. And her _eyes. _Clearly his symptoms were getting worse: no one had irises that blue. But no matter how pretty her eyes were, she was still _late. _ “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?”

“I apologise, Mister Lannister, but it’s flu season. We’re hit especially hard in the North. If you’d like to come this way?” Jaime followed the Maester down a well-lit corridor; Tarth opening the door to her office and ushering him inside. “Take a seat and tell me what’s wrong.”

Jaime collapsed in the chair opposite hers. His head was fuzzy. He felt like he _knew _her from somewhere. A ridiculous notion: he’d never been to Heart Tree since moving to the North some months ago, and she certainly didn’t seem the type to hang around the Winterfell University campus. Jaime tried to put an association to that singular face, but his head began to pound instead. He croaked, “I’m _dying._”

“I highly doubt that, Mister Lannister. But let’s take a look at you.”

Maester Tarth took his temperature, _hmmed, _and then began feeling his face. Soft fingers brushed the bridge of his eyes; the line of his cheeks. She was very gentle for such a large woman. Tarth bit her lip and made a notation on her computer. “Are you suffering from any pressure in your ears, face?”

He nodded. “It aches. _Everywhere_.” Then he sneezed; spluttering his disgust. Tarth offered him a tissue. “My head is throbbing; my throat feels like a bushel of thorns. I can’t _smell _anything; I can’t _taste _anything. I’m _dying_, Maester Tarth.”

She did not call for an ambulance or a septon. Instead, Tarth made a few more additions to her notes. “Any difficulty sleeping? Loss of appetite?”

“No.”

More notes. “Any vomiting or diarrhoea?”

Jaime shook his head; immediately groaning at the pain. “No, Maester. Nothing like that.”

Tarth nodded. She reached for a pump of antibacterial hand gel and began rubbing it into her hands. She sat back in her office chair and offered Jaime a polite, yet slightly condescending, smile. “Mister Lannister, you are not dying. You have a cold.”

“A _what_?”

She rolled her eyes, and Jaime would have called her out over such unprofessional behaviour if he could gather the energy to do so. “You have nothing more than a common cold, Mister Lannister.”

“There is _nothing _common about me.”

“Oh, _I know._” It hurt to move his face; his cheeks feeling swollen and sore. But Jaime hoped he looked confused because it seemed he _did _know the Maester from somewhere, although he could not place her. She, however, could place him. “We live in the same building, Mister Lannister. I actually have the flat below you.”

“Oh. I don’t—”

“—it’s fine. Being unnoticed actually makes for an interesting change of pace.” A brief quirk of her mouth, and then back to business. “Mister Lannister, there is nothing wrong with you that bedrest and painkillers can’t cure.”

That was it? Thirty minutes in a stuffy, snotty waiting room, and Tarth was just telling him to sleep it off? “What about antibiotics? Surely there’s some miracle drug that’ll have me—” He coughed again; sagging back in the chair. “—well. _Please_.”

“There is no cure for the common cold, Mister Lannister. Rest, keep warm, and drink plenty of fluids. You’re what, forty-two?” Tarth checked his notes. “Surely you’ve had a cold before.”

Jaime thought, yet could not recall a time he had actually been sick. No inflamed tonsils; no stomach flu. The occasional broken bone from sports or reckless endeavours but not an actual _illness. _His father’s personal physician had kept he and his siblings in tiptop shape: after all, a Lannister must _never _show weakness. Something, however, must have shown on his face as Tarth seemed to soften. She reached for a jotter pad, scribbled a few things down, and handed it to him.

“Tarth Family Survival Kit. Tissues, tea, painkillers, hot water bottle, ice cream, and soup. The shop opposite our building should have all of this. Drink plenty of water, don’t overexert yourself, and, if your symptoms get worse or don’t improve in three weeks, come and make another appointment.”

“Three weeks?” If he still felt like this in three weeks, he’d be knocking down her apartment door. Still, he took the list; crumpling it slightly in his palm. “Well, thank you, Maester Tarth.”

“You’re welcome, Mister Lannister.” She rose to her feet and opened the door for him. Jaime eased himself to a standing position, swaying slightly. He looked to Tarth; her eyes soft once more. “Maybe text a friend to come round; keep you company. You may not be dying, Mister Lannister, but a cold can be a miserable experience.”

“I don’t have any friends here.” He shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to suffer in silence.”

Tarth smirked; a few choice words hesitating in the back of her throat. She managed to keep her barbs to herself. “Good day, Mister Lannister. I hope you feel better soon.”

So did he. It took everything in him to force his body through the doorway and out of Heart Tree clinic. In his former life, Jaime would have just called for a car and abandoned his own. Instead, he struggled with the seatbelt and blasted fresh air to keep him awake as he made the twenty-minute trip home. Once parked, Jaime considered the shop and Tarth’s list. The painkillers would be a blessing for his aching limbs; the ice cream a balm for his tortured throat. But Jaime just coughed and sneezed and spluttered his way up the lift and through his front door instead. He collapsed on the sofa, unable and unwilling to move, until the sky grew dark and there were three raps on his door.

Whining into the cushion his face was mashed against, Jaime picked himself up off the sofa and did his best impression of a White Walker as he made it to the door. Three more raps. He opened it. “Maester Tarth.”

She was standing on his doorstep with two shopping bags and a duffel. Tarth took one look at him and let out a low sigh. “Just as I thought. Come on, let’s get you out of those clothes.”

“So _forward._” He ran a hand over his clammy face and offered Tarth a lazy grin._ “_Well, if you insist. I’ve never slept with a woman as tall as you, but I think I’d like it.”

“That’s not what I–_ugh._” Tarth pressed the duffel bag into his chest. He rocked back on his heels. “You won’t be able to rest in a five-hundred dragon suit. I assume you don’t own loungewear, so I brought some of mine. The bottoms should fit; the shoulders of the t-shirt might be a little snug. Get changed, and I’ll put on some tea. And soup: I doubt you’ve eaten since I saw you.”

Jaime opened his mouth to argue with the bossy giant who had just invaded his apartment, but he did rather like the idea of being in something other than a shirt, waistcoat, and tie. He let Tarth potter around his kitchen whilst he dragged himself to his bedroom. Jaime stripped, and pulled on loose-fitting grey trousers and a baggy _Blackfish _t-shirt from their reunion tour. _Much better. _He ran a hand across two days’ worth of stubble and muddled back into the main room.

Tarth had piled all his cushions high in one corner. She’d brought over a blanket; a patchwork quilt with embroidered gulls and boats. His television was playing some old medieval movie, and there was a bowl of rabbit and vegetable soup for him to enjoy. Tarth sat down a tall glass of water with some pills.

“Take these, and another two in four hours. No more than eight in a twenty-four-hour period, alright? I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

Jaime curled up on his sofa and reached for the quilt. “You’re not staying?”

“Mister Lannister—”

“Jaime,” he said, sinking his head against the cushions. “My name’s Jaime. What’s your first name? I don’t want to call you Maester Tarth all evening.”

“I’m not–I wasn’t—” Even full of cold, Jaime could be charming. Maester Tarth took one look at his handsome features – okay, his tired and snotty face – and decided to take pity on him. She tugged off her coat; batting his ankles out the way so she could sit down at the far end of the sofa. “It’s Brienne. Now, take your pills and drink your water. I’ll just stay until you finish your soup.”

Jaime hid a smile around the rim of his glass as he kept hydrated – Maester’s orders. He then tried a mouthful of soup; the warm broth easing his throat. This felt nice. Being taken care of; someone showing _concern _for his wellbeing. He had been in the North for five months now and had no one to call in an emergency; no one to sit with him when he was sick. _Had _being the operative word. After he finished his soup, Brienne stayed to make them both some tea and then took half the quilt. When the film finished, she put on another.

Jaime could get used to having a friend. 


End file.
